


Know You Now

by iceberry



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 20:25:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17649296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iceberry/pseuds/iceberry
Summary: With his free hand, Samot leans over to grab the blanket that had fallen on the floor earlier, and drapes it over himself. “Do you really think he'll be able to wait 6 years? I fully expect him to spend the next few months trying to find some way around it.”He turns to look at his husband just in time to see a small, and exasperated and tired, but fond smile cross Samothes’ handsome face, and meets his eyes. “Well… he is our son, after all.”(Maelgwyn is promised a fortune if he waits or gets married. He's confident he can expedite the process. He is Confidence Alive, after all.)





	Know You Now

**Author's Note:**

  * For [madelinestarr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madelinestarr/gifts).



> this is my secret samol for madelinestarr!!! i took the prompt of maelgwyn fake dating one of the six to get a fortune (+ happy samsam) and just kind of …. ran with it lol because it was so good and also i guess i love this ship now? i had an absolute blast writing this though i can't remember i had an idea hit me like this one did and even though fake dating is sort of out of my trope wheelhouse i tried my best with it. It’s still in podcast hieron but like? EXTREME canon divergence? just imagine it’s the weirdest strata where no one knows about the heat and the dark. or maybe there is no heat and the dark! only falling in love and schemes. also im so sorry for the lateness, this is about 8000 words longer than i anticipated, but i hope it was worth the wait!! title taken from get to know you by moonbeau, whose album i listened to probably 3 times through in the final stretch of finishing this fic.

Maelgwyn is 21. He is well aware that years scarcely matter for him, but at least so far he’s aged relatively normally, so it’s useful enough to keep track of. He’s far from a child - though he’s never really needed to, he can hold his own in a duel and a debate alike, thanks to the second-to-none education he’s received in skills practical and philosophical alike. He is tall, and handsome, and very aware of both of these things; he is confidence alive, the son of gods and the prince of the wonderful, strange city of Marielda, nestled into the southeast corner of his grandfather, the land Hieron itself. He is the third generation of the first lineage. He is 21 years old, and all of these other things, and his fathers are looking at him from across their dining room table, and he is scowling back at them, and he is also glaring at them, because their terms are absurd, and they _must_ know that.

“Those terms are absurd, father,” Maelgwyn says, angry but as sure of his words as ever (which is very sure). “You _must_ know that.”

Samothes takes a sip of wine from the glass poured for him by his husband and raises an eyebrow. “Raising my son to know the importance of work is absurd?”

“When you have an entire city under your command and no shortage of wealth, withholding it from your child because of some ‘ideology’ is absurd.” Maelgwyn crosses his arms and raises his chin, slightly but enough to come off as a quietly defiant gesture. And he looks to Samot, who _must_ be more sympathetic to his situation, right? Of his fathers, the God of Books and Wine has always appreciated the need for finer things in life more. “Do you agree with this, father?”

Samot runs a finger around the rim of his own wine glass, filled far higher than Samothes’, meets his husband’s eyes and sighs, as if suddenly remembering that raising a child (even one mostly grown) is weary work sometimes. “I _understand_ why your father would like you to make your own way in the city, at least for a bit.” He looks back at Maelgwyn, reaches up to brush hair out of his face out of habit more than anything else. “It doesn’t need to be physical work, Maelgwyn. You know I would support you if you chose to use this time to seek out an education. At Memoriam College, or the University if you would like to travel back with me -”

Maelgwyn scoffs at the suggestion, and Samot cuts himself off to give his son a disapproving look, a fatherly gaze of disappointment that does nothing to chagrin Maelgwyn.

“I am being far more flexible than I could be,” Samothes says. “If you get married, or when you turn 27 after demonstrating some initiative. These are reasonable.”

“I’m a grown man,” Maelgwyn, says, almost spitting the words out. “This is absurd. I’m leaving.” He leaves, shoving the chair in behind him so hard it hits the table with a bang, and lets the door shut hard behind him.

◊

Samot stares up at the ceiling of their bedroom, Samothes’ arm wrapped around him and blankets half off the bed. The breeze, a constant presence thanks to the city’s proximity to the ocean, blowing through the open window makes the candles placed around the room flicker. It’s casting a lovely pattern of light and shadow above them, but His Most Honorable Contradiction’s eyes aren’t really focused on it.

“Why is having a child so difficult?” he asks, and Samothes lets out a warm chuckle next to him. “Even once they’ve grown?”

“That’s just how they were created, I suppose. Take it up with dad." 

“Terrible design choice,” Samot says, reaching over to lace Samothes’ fingers with his, treasuring the small familiarity of the callouses from hours in the forge. “It would be so much easier if they were simple.”

“But it wouldn’t be half as rewarding.” It’s Samot’s turn to laugh, a quick sharp noise.

“Don’t try to sound so poetic now. I could tell how vexed you were by him earlier.”

“I expect I’ll only get more vexed by him as this goes on.”

With his free hand, Samot leans over to grab the blanket that had fallen on the floor earlier, and drapes it over himself (and over Samothes, but his husband doesn't get cold nearly as much as him). “Do you really think he'll be able to wait 6 years? I fully expect him to spend the next few months trying to find some way around it.”

He turns to look at his husband just in time to see a content, if small, and exasperated and tired, smile cross Samothes’ handsome face, and meets his eyes. “Well… he is our son, after all.”

◊

Charter Castille is by far the strangest of Maelgwyn’s exes. He uses “exes” loosely, just on principle: here it means that they met on account of his father Samot hearing that one of his other father’s creations seemed to be something _more_ than an animated statue and inviting her to a party he was hosting to sate his endless curiosity, embarrassed her in the process by making her realize that the hat was not as universally disguising as she believed, Maelgwyn and her shared a few moments, Samot offered her a teaching job, they decided it wasn’t going anywhere, and they still go to a cafe every so often to talk.

It’s a peculiar friendship, but it works for him.

“Well, so, are you going to do it?” Castille says, looking across the small table with a questioning expression on her marble face; the blue hat she’s wearing today is especially large, covering almost half of her face. The two of them have attracted a little attention - they’re an odd couple, and Maelgwyn attracts attention wherever he goes, something he’s quite used to by now.

“Of course not,” Maelgwyn says, and catches the eye of one of the cafe’s waiters, who scurries over. “Another coffee, please.” They scurry off, and Maelgwyn leans on the table. “I’m going to find a way around it, naturally.” The cafe is open-air, mostly, with hanging gardens built up and around it, white stone walkways and arches with green foliage nearly covering the outside of the structure.

Charter makes a quiet “hm” noise and looks off at some of the flowering vines dangling from the structure, twisted leaves turned upwards with the promise of rain later. “The easiest suggestion would be to steal it, though that wouldn’t be very helpful in the long run.”

“Nearly impossible. Samothes made the lock himself and destroyed the key, and I think Samot asked his mages to charm it as well. Even if I somehow could get a copy of the key without him knowing, the mage factor complicates things.” His coffee arrives in a smooth black carafe, and he pours himself another cup, sighing.

“You could just get married,” she says, giving him a wry smile. “It’s not like it would be difficult to find someone willing to marry a handsome man for a surreal fortune.”

“It would never work. It would need to be _convincing_. Someone who knows how to manipulate people.” He pauses, fully aware of the unnecessary drama his tone is inducing into this hypothetical. “Who knows how to manipulate _gods_.”

Castille looks thoughtful for a second, then folds her gloved hands together in front of her. “Your father has… books, right?”

Maelgwyn openly scoffs at that, and has to resist rolling his eyes. “My father _invented_ books. Of course we have them. Our homes are second only to the university in all of Hieron in terms of how many books we have in our libraries.”

“ _Libraries_ ,” Castille repeats under her breath and shakes her head, like the plurality of it is too much to digest. “And you’d be willing to pay someone decently if they _could_ pull off pretending to marry you?”

“They certainly wouldn’t get my entire fortune, but if they were willing to commit… then I suppose I could spare some. And even some of what I’ve been promised is quite a bit.”

Castille stands up and adjusts her hat; Maelgwyn sips his coffee and looks up at her. “I might have an idea, but I need to talk to some people. Do you know the dancing studio in the south of Chrysanthemum Parish? Meet me there late tomorrow night.”

He nods slowly, once, and she’s off with the glint of the sun flashing off of the obsidian scar on her cheek and the swish of her skirts.

◊

The rain that seemed just on the horizon earlier eventually rolls in, and stays through the night. Maelgwyn falls asleep to the sound of rain on the roof of their city manor, along with the occasional howl of wind down the streets. It continues onto the next day, and the hot weather and heavy rainfall make the city as humid as Maelgwyn has ever remembered it being. It’s _awful_.

He tries to take his meals as separate from his fathers as possible, and when unavoidable, exchanges as few words from them as possible. He remains civil, however - he’s not going to start up the argument again, not if Castille has _some_ sort of plan or trick up her sleeve.

When night falls, the rain has finally slowed to a sprinkle, but steam rises from the streets and the humidity has only become more oppressive as the dark rolls in. Their city manor is on the eastern edge of the parish, but it’s still a quick walk when he slips out. Lamp posts line and light the main streets, but the city is quiet tonight - _Understandable,_ he thinks, as he tugs at his collar and eventually just opens his jacket another button or two. _I can’t imagine who would want to be out in this sauna_.

Castille opens the door barely a second after he knocks on it, clearly waiting right inside the threshold for him.

“Well? What’s all this about?” he asks as she shuts the door behind him, and he pushes limp blond curls out of his face.

“Follow me,” she says, and leads him into what looks to be a dark dance studio. “The short of it is that I have… I guess what you could call a side hustle. I don’t just teach classes with Bolster -”

“-of course not, I’ve seen your blacksmithing work too.”

She pauses before pushing a door open. “Well, then I guess you could say I have two side hustles.” Castille leads him into an even darker hallway, and towards what looks to be a stairwell at the end. “Your father-”

“-which one-”

“- _Samothes_ , I was getting to that, is not a big fan of-” she makes a vague gesture as they head down the stairs. “-knowledge getting out. And Samot compromising for just a few schools isn’t helping.”

“They bicker about it all the time, I’m certain Samothes will eventually give in,” Maelgwyn says as they pass through another studio, though this one has stands of rapiers lining the walls.

“Well, in the meantime,” Castille says, and bends down and pulls at the floorboards, a trap door coming up. She steps back so Maelgwyn could peer down, and his eyes widen at the scene below him. A ladder leads down to a room stuffed to the brim with books and papers, a table in the center filled with stacks of notes and dripping candles. A pair of golden retrievers begin running in circles around the table, weaving around the figures standing there, who are looking up at Maelgwyn’s incredulous face with expressions ranging from a leisurely sort of amusement (the dashing human wearing the cavalry uniform of the city’s army), curiosity cut by a distinct look of uncertainty (the small cobbin, shorter than the table), cautious recognition (the large human with dark skin and suspenders), and a slightly less leisurely look of amusement (as there are apparently two of the dashing cavalrymen, who at least from up. He looks back up at Castille, a slightly bewildered expression on his face - not one familiar to the man known as Confidence Alive.

“Meet the six.”

“You’re not supposed to have those books.”

Maelgwyn feels so cramped in their hideout, he’s not sure how Sige (the large man’s name, now that he’s been introduced to the rest of the group) can stand it. One of the golden retrievers kept bumping his hand with its head, so he’s absentmindedly petting it as he listens to Aubrey explain the Six in more detail.

“So we deal in knowledge, and sometimes steal things to get it, but it’s all for the good of the city.” The cobbin has a very nervous air about her, so Maelgwyn looks to the others for confirmation, who are generally nodding along. “Since Samothes is so stingy - oh!” She cuts herself off when she remembers who’s she’s speaking to, and starts to stammer an apology before Maelgwyn waves her off.

“You want me to smuggle you books so you can make a profit from the knowledge, yes, that’s fine.” He knows that it’s _technically_ an act of betrayal against his father, but really, Samot is months away from convincing Samothes to let the citizens learn without restrictions, so it probably won’t count or matter when the time comes. “As many as you need. Within reason, but that’s simple.”

“This is going to be a long con,” one of the Hitchcocks says, leaning on the table so Maelgwyn can see him better. “I won’t be able to take many other scores during that time. So the promise of payment is also paramount.”

Maelgwyn looks up at him and assesses the man he’s going to pretend to marry. “Which one are you?” He isn’t bad looking - certainly not. The initial judgement of ‘dashing’ is accurate, and closer to him he can see that his eyes are very sharp, clever in a way that interests Maelgwyn.

“Ethan,” Castille replies before the Hitchcock in question has a chance to speak for himself. “Edmund teaches the dancing school, and isn’t as free during the daytime.” It doesn’t escape Maelgwyn’s attention that the other Hitchcock is standing a bit back from the table, looking generally displeased with the proceedings. _None of my concern_ , Maelgwyn thinks, and pulls his attention back to his twin.

“Yes, payment at the time of me gaining my inheritance is part of the agreement.” He pauses, thinking. “Five percent at the time of my inheritance, another five percent at the time of our divorce. Do we have an accord?”

Castille nods, and the rest follow suit - Sige, then Aubrey, then Ethan. Edmund hesitates, but nods, and the way the light hits him, Maelgwyn can finally see what look to be bruises along one side of his face. Satisfied, Maelgwyn holds a hand out across the table to Ethan, who shakes it.

“I look forward to marrying you,” Maelgwyn says.

◊

“So,” Hitchcock says, looking far more at home in this fancy restaurant than Maelgwyn expected him to, though he thinks it’s mostly bravado on the duelist’s part. The window their table is next to is made of a textured bottle-green glass, and the light coming through casts a strange viridian light on the white tablecloth. “Not that I don’t appreciate it, but what is the point of taking the time to wine and dine me?” He smiles, a particularly devious smile. “I’m ready for the ring whenever you’re ready to propose.”

“For a seasoned criminal, you don’t have a great understanding of how to properly set up a deception.” Their table is set far enough away from the other guests (at his request, which was of course followed without question) that they shouldn’t be heard, but he still speaks quietly.

“Calling me a criminal in a public place? How rude,” Hitchcock says, drops his voice a bit. “I’m merely a retired cavalry officer who runs a dancing school, and is _absolutely_ only one person.” Maelgwyn rolls his eyes. He trusts Castille, is sure she’s correct that her companions are very good at what they do - but isn’t sure how long he’ll be able to tolerate his future husband’s company.

“My fathers are smart. If I showed up with a spouse on my arm a week after they promised me my fortune, they’d know the plot instantly.”

“And you can’t just use… divine magic to create gold for yourself? Or to take the gold from them?”

“That’s absolutely not how either of those things work, so no.” Maelgwyn looks around at the restaurant, makes eye contact with a staring nobleman, who he smiles graciously at before looking back at Ethan. “Gossip makes the world go round. Having the public as evidence to back up our romance is just smart.”

“Works for me.”

Maelgwyn orchestrates the next couple of weeks with care, and although he already had no doubts that the plan would work, he becomes more and more sure of it as time goes on. They’re seen together at restaurants, cafes, riding the train, heads conspiratorially close together, like lovers confiding small secrets to each other. Of course, they’re really just talking about whatever comes to them in the moment, nothing particularly romantic - Maelgwyn is relieved to find that Ethan is actually _enjoyable_ to talk to, part of the rare category of people Maelgwyn can tolerate for extended periods of time despite his tendency towards being a smartass. Maybe even _because_ of it. It’s amusing, and Maelgwyn isn’t used to having people talk back to him, so there’s a novelty to the whole thing.

Maelgwyn ceases trying to avoid his fathers, and answers their questions about what he’s been doing gradually, but honestly. “Eating lunch with a friend of Castille’s, Ethan.” “Going to the hanging gardens with that man I mentioned the other day.” “Visiting Hitchcock’s dance school.” He wants to accomplish this as quickly as possible while still making it seem real.

Things are going better than he could have imagined when his father catches sight of him heading out one day.

“Maelgwyn,” Samothes says, and he stops in the hallway at the sound of his name. “Come in here for a second.” His voice is serious, but Maelgwyn’s shoulders relax a bit when he recognizes it as merely his normal serious voice, and not the serious voice that indicates that he’s furious (so he can probably hold off on telling Ethan their cover is blown for the moment).

Maelgwyn steps into the dining room, a cavernous room with dark wood lining the walls and a table that looks long enough to hold half the city at it. Ornate swords hang over an empty fireplace, Samothes’ work - weapons that were never intended to see the battlefield, and blessedly, haven’t needed to.

The table is covered in blueprints, drawings of various inventions and plans for buildings. There’s a drawing of a new sort of train, one different than the one that runs from the upper outskirts of the city to the forest by the coast. And as Maelgwyn steps closer, he can see that the drawings are done by Samothes’ clever hand, but most of the notes and corrections on the parchment are written with Samot’s lighter touch.

“This Ethan,” his father says, and lets the words hang expectantly in the air.

“Yes?”

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with him lately.” There’s curiosity in his father’s tone, but Maelgwyn can’t pick up on too many hints of suspicion.

“I’m actually headed out to meet with him right now,” Maelgwyn replies, keeping his words even but looking towards the door. “He’s very impatient, I wouldn’t want to keep him waiting -”

“Now, hold on,” his father says before he can exit. “Why don’t you invite him to the High Sun Day celebrations? They’re a week from today. Your father and I would love to meet him.”

“Oh, well - he wouldn’t know anyone but me, I wouldn’t want it to be uncomfortable, what with Severea and Galenica and a thousand other strangers.”

“That’s not true,” Samothes says. “You said that Castille introduced you, correct? Samot invited her to join his mages, so she’ll be here.” _Fuck_. His father’s tone shifts, becoming a bit more serious and questioning, and it dawns on Maelgwyn that it’s no longer efficious to avoid introducing them.

The reality of the scheme is that Ethan would always have to meet Samot and Samothes, but he’d hoped to put it off as long as possible. “Yes, of course. I’ll invite him sometime this week.” At the first sign of satisfaction on Samothes’ face Maelgwyn bolts, and leaves without wishing him goodbye, cursing in his head the whole way out the door.

◊

Maelgwyn shows up to the studio around dinner one evening later that week, finest cape draped over his shoulders and the heels of his polished boots clicking on the stone streets of Chrysanthemum Parish. He lets himself in, figuring that if Ethan is in his studio, any knocking wouldn’t be heard anyways. He has yet to visit when the dancing lessons are in full swing, but he thinks it might be nice to see as he passes through the dim room - it’s easy to imagine students spinning across the lacquered floor, and while they’d never be anything even half-comparable to the dancers at the parties Samot hosts, it might still be a pretty sight.

By now he knows the way downstairs, the hall to the back hall that he follows to the staircase. But as he descends the stairs, he pauses a few steps from the bottom when the sound of raised voices in the fencing studio reaches him. He slows his pace and waits in the shadows, listening.

“Even if you could, I don’t think you _would_ take any jobs with us anymore,” one of them says, probably Edmund, based off context.

“Why would I need to! Do you know how much money an inheritance from _gods_ must be worth?” _He’s right_ , Maelgwyn thinks, but stays quiet.

“So you’re just giving it up.”

“Giving what up?”

“The heists! The robberies! Parting every fool we come across from their money! What _we’ve_ always done!”

“Oh, so that’s it,” Ethan replies, and even in all of their back and forths, Maelgwyn is certain he hasn’t heard him sound so acerbic. “It’s not about the heists, it’s about us not working together.”

“No, that’s not -”

“You’re scared to go without me, Edmund,” Ethan says. “Maybe you’ve always been scared, hiding behind me, and it just took Memoriam for you to finally reveal it. But that’s your issue.”

There’s a beat, and Maelgwyn thinks one or both of them is going to start yelling - and then the sound of footsteps heads towards the stairs (and him). Edmund pushes past him, glaring and lips pressed into a thin line.

“You were a bit harsh with him,” Maelgwyn says as he enters the room, stepping out of the shadows. Ethan looks up at him and gives him a glare nearly identical to the one Edmund did a moment before.

“Oh, shut up,” Ethan says, clearly rankled by the conversation with Edmund. “Frankly, for all the nice dinner dates you’ve taken me on, you really don’t know anything about me. Or my brother.”

The prince bristles at the prod at his observational skills, or maybe it’s at his knowledge or insight, he’s not sure. But he knows it bothers him. “And is that by design? Or maybe you’re such a boring conversationalist there’s been nothing to pick up on.”

Ethan smirks at that, a sardonic smile that doesn’t reach his eyes and only serves to emphasize how drained he looks.  “Don’t lie to a liar, Maelgwyn. We both know I might be a scoundrel, but I’m a very charming one.” Maelgwyn starts a bit at Ethan’s casual use of his full name, though not necessarily in a bad way. He’s used it before, when they’re together in public, when there was an element of performance to their conversations. There’s no reason he shouldn’t be using it, really - but he’s used to honorifics and titles from most everyone except his family and the few flings he’s had over the years.

“Fight me,” Ethan says before Maelgwyn has time to interrogate that knee-jerk reaction much further, and strolls over to the weapons rack to retrieve two rapiers.

“Why?”

“Because I’m angry, and want to fight, and you told me you know how to duel.”

“When did I tell you that?”

“You talk a lot about yourself. Here,” Ethan says, and tosses over one of the rapiers. Maelgwyn catches it without any trouble, and immediately weighs it, feels out how it - _It’ll do_ , he thinks, resigned to sparring. He tosses off his cape with a flourish, and they both get in stance.

Ethan is unprepared. Maelgwyn’s rapier flashes, and immediately Hitchcock is forced to fall back, on the defense and parrying blows before he’s even had a chance to put pressure on Maelgwyn. He’s _Confidence Alive_ , and if anybody didn’t know that, they certainly would after seeing him fight. His greatest strength in dueling is the complete absence of hesitation in his attacks, and he just _pushes_ , not giving Ethan a moment to get a riposte back at him. Perhaps Hitchcock _is_ a good swordsman, but he’s clearly never fought anyone like Maelgwyn. He doesn’t let up, relishing the rush of energy pulsing through his veins as he forces Ethan further and further backwards.

Until he hits the wall with a quiet thump. Maelgwyn notices and stops his own forward movement, but not until he’s only inches away from the duelist, close enough that he can hear his breathing. He holds his sword up longer than he needs to, smiling. “It wasn’t just talk.”

“Clearly,” Ethan says, out of breath and eyes wide, and Maelgwyn lowers the blade. “Again,” he demands, and Maelgwyn looks at him skeptically as he slips out from in between the other man and the wall.

“Really?”

“Yes.” Maelgwyn looks into his eyes, trying to gauge if maybe this is a bad idea, Ethan is too upset, that he’d run the risk of actually injuring him - and riding the high of his victory, he chooses to ignore it and gets back into stance.

He decides seconds before they begin that he won’t give any ground to Ethan, no advantage because he’s having a hard time. But as it turns out, he doesn’t have an opportunity to _really_ make that choice. Ethan almost immediately pushes him back, forces him to give up ground. In the span of a single round, he found a counter-strategy for Maelgwyn’s technique, punishing him for his aggressive attacks instead of letting them be an advantage.

Maelgwyn feels his own back bump up against the wall, but Ethan smirks and doesn’t stop moving towards him right away. He doesn’t stop until his chest is flush with Maelgwyn’s, close enough that he can feel Hitchcock’s breath on his neck. They both stand still for a moment, breathing heavily. Maelgwyn is sweating, his hair has come out of its tie and curls are sticking to his cheek. It stirs something in Maelgwyn, something _intensely_ unfamiliar - and he panics, drops his rapier to the ground with a clatter, and pushes Ethan away, the duelist stumbling back out of surprise. He feels unsure, _confused_ , and that’s his signal to get out of here.

“That was exceedingly unnecessary,” Maelgwyn says, voice bolder than he feels, and gathers his cloak up and fastens it as he begins to head towards the exit.

“Wait,” Ethan calls, and Maelgwyn hesitates. “What did you come here for? Surely not just a courtesy visit.”

“Oh.” He’d forgotten, in the midst of… all that. “You’re invited to High Sun Day celebrations. At the Manor. They’re in 4 days. Come whenever.”

Maelgwyn leaves without waiting for an RSVP.

◊

 

High Sun Day starts early, and ends late; or really, it starts early on High Sun Day, when the sun just crests the horizon, and ends early the morning after. There's their manor, tucked away in Chrysanthemum Parish, and the Volcano, far on the edge of the city - Samot and Samothes' preferred abodes, respectively. And this year, on account of him leaving for the University again soon, Samot's swayed his husband to host the party here, among the people. But because of the constraints of living in the middle of a city, it takes an awful lot more work (and magic) to host a party of this size, and preparations have been going on for _weeks_ , cooking and cleaning and magicking extra rooms into existence. So Maelgwyn isn’t so much excited as just deeply ready to go back to sleep and for the day to be over when the shouting begins at daybreak. 

But he knows the routine, and knows how to play along with it. He drags himself out of bed, puts his finest clothes on, pulls his unruly hair back, puts on his mostly princely smile, and waits for the delegations to arrive.

Severea with her flowing dress and parade of creatures of all types arrive first, Galenica with their heavy presence and imposing figure. He lives here, so it’s kind of silly to leave just to come back, but Samot leads his procession into the ballroom, and Maelgwyn meets Charter’s eyes as the pala-din walks in alongside his father’s best mages.

Samol doesn’t bother with the pomp and circumstance - he never does, but this year it feels especially casual, walking in with a wave and the same dirty clothes and torn up sunhat he always wears.

“There’s my grandson,” he says when the feast is underway and he catches sight of Maelgwyn, who’s drifting between his father’s tables and exchanging pleasantries with the important dignitaries, and giving gracious looks to the unimportant ones. He pulls Maelgwyn into a tight hug, reaches up to muss up his hair, even though Maelgwyn’s had a solid 5 inches on his grandfather’s height for years now.

“Hello, granddad,” he says, a bit embarrassed by the attention (but his grandfather is Hieron himself, so there isn’t much he can do to avoid the hug).

“How’ve you been? Walk with me, I want to grab some of that smoked fish before it’s all gone,” he says and sets off, his age not slowing him down a beat.

“I’ve been fine,” Maelgwyn says, actually _struggling_ to keep up with Samot. “The same old. How have you been?”

Samot ignores his question. “Same old? Your dad tells me you’ve been seein’ someone. Is he here?”

Maelgwyn starts at that, suddenly realizing he hadn’t even noticed Hitchcock’s absence in the rush of introductions. “No, not yet. He should be here later.”

Smoked fish retrieved, Samol claps him on the shoulder and gives him a smile. “Well, when he gets here, you better introduce us.”

The rest of brunch, Maelgwyn is distracted by Hitchcock’s absence - he had said the duelist could come whenever, but it will look bad to his fathers if he doesn’t show at all. The first meal of the day passes, and guests exit the ballroom to mingle and rest before the evening feast, and Maelgwyn floats around, now keeping a close eye on the crowds for any sign of Ethan.

So of course he doesn’t see Hitchcock walk in, and nearly jumps out of his seat when the duelist slips in next to him at the dinner table, drink already in hand.

“Glad you decided to show,” he says, trying to salvage his footing in this situation.

“You said anytime. This is ‘any’ ‘time’, correct?” Ethan says as he stretches his arm around to rest it on the back of Maelgwyn’s chair, smiling at a few of the nearby guests who look over at them.

“Yes. What are you doing?” Maelgwyn drops his voice to barely above a whisper, but Ethan laughs - a laugh that Maelgwyn recognizes as forced after spending this much time with him, but a good facsimile by most measures - at a normal volume before whispering back.

“Smile at me,” Hitchcock says, and Maelgwyn gives him the softest smile he can muster up through the irritation. “You’re paying me to help put on a show. Well, this is our biggest audience yet.”

Maelgwyn makes himself laugh in turn, the perfect act of two lovers exchanging quiet comments after being apart all day. “You’re going to have to meet my fathers,” he whispers then raises his voice. “Could I get another glass of wine over here for my guest,” smile still plastered on his face as someone scurries off.

“Oh, we’re excellent at this,” and Maelgwyn can’t help but to laugh at Ethan’s cocksuredness (though he agrees).

The introduction to Samot and Samothes is blessedly short - there are far too many people who’ve come to pay their respects to Samothes for them to be able to justify keeping the two of them in an exchange of introductions and pleasantries too long. Samothes inquires about Ethan’s time in the cavalry, Samot asks about his favorite dances to teach the nobles of the city, and both of them seem satisfied with the answers.  Maelgwyn is unsure how his parents feel about Hitchcock beyond that, who was his normal oil-slick charming with them, but sure that their cover isn’t blown.

As they walk away, Hitchcock on Maelgwyn’s arm, he tilts his head up. “I think that went rather well, didn’t you?”

“Well, you didn’t fuck it up beyond repair,” Maelgwyn replies, stopping to grab a drink from someone walking by with a tray as they head towards the dance floor.

“An auspicious start to meeting my in-laws then,” Hitchcock replies, and grabs a drink of his own, which he raises to Maelgwyn. “To getting married.”

“We aren’t even engaged yet,” Maelgwyn says, but raises his own glass, and downs the entire thing. They stop on the edge of where the dancers are spinning around, mesmerizing footwork peeking out from long dresses and heels clicking. “Do you have a few hours of performance left in you?”

“Always, my dear Maelgwyn,” Hitchcock says, and takes Maelgwyn’s glass from him and passes it off to a bewildered looking stranger before leading him in a dance that he thinks he might have known years ago but has long forgotten. It’s surprisingly alright - even if he’s only half the dancer that he is a duelist, it’s still enough to make them both look good. “You attract quite a bit of attention,” he comments, though Maelgwyn is far more aware of the hand on his waist than the hundreds of eyes on him, he smiles.

“Of course I do,” he replies, gloating a bit. “Has it taken you that long to notice?”

“No,” Hitchcock says, and despite being shorter, manages to guide Maelgwyn into a surprisingly well-executed turn beneath his arm. “It’s just more noticeable here since everybody knows you.”

“Frankly, I think everybody should know who I am no matter where in the city I go.” Ethan laughs at that, and they bow and step apart as the song ends. “I want another drink,” Maelgwyn announces, and Ethan steps off the dance floor with him to grab another glass from a tray, Hitchcock taking one as well. Despite the pressure of the scheme weighing him down, he’s enjoying himself. He can’t remember the last time a High Sun Day was as entertaining as this one.

And so it goes like that for _hours_. Dance, and then pause to drink, stepping to the side to whisper about how to best keep ape. It’s probably the alcohol, but Maelgwyn can’t shake the feeling that the longer the night goes on the adjustments to their performance are becoming less and less serious, each conversation feeling a bit more like an inside joke that he’s... _part of_ but still not entirely in on.

They’ve been dancing on and off for four hours, and by Maelgwyn’s best inebriated estimates, there’s still at least an hour left before guests begin dropping like flies. And he has a _brilliant_ idea, or at least an idea that _seems_ brilliant 8 drinks into a long night, and really, what’s the difference?

Ethan leads him in a new dance, some kind of variation on a waltz that not as many guests seem to know. The dance floor clears out, save for them and a few other couples, most of whom seems to be stumbling less than the two of them and who are probably not a month and a half into an elaborate scheme. But Maelgwyn is intent to blend in, or make them stand out as the best, or both somehow. It makes sense to him right now.

“Ethan,” he says quietly, but firmly, because this is very important. “I need to kiss you.”

“What?” Maelgwyn has been missing steps for the last couple of dances, but Ethan stumbles for the first time before making a quick recovery. “Why would you need to do that?”

“We _need_ to,” Maelgwyn insists. “To keep up the performance.”

Ethan looks up at him, still guiding them through the steps but suddenly off-beat, and opens and closes his mouth like he’s trying to come up with some reason why it’s a bad idea. “Alright,” he says, and Maelgwyn doesn’t wait another beat before tilting his head down.

Maelgwyn kisses him.

It isn’t a _good_ kiss, certainly, he’s very drunk. But it isn’t a brief peck on the lips either, and Ethan slows, then stops, and they stand like that in the middle of the dance floor for several seconds, pairs spinning around them and a few quiet whispers far off.

Ethan pulls back this time, looking even more caught off-guard than he was when Maelgwyn had beat him while sparring. His eyes are wide for a moment, and then he looks away, and starts leading Maelgwyn back into the dance. “Happy?” he mutters under his breath.

“It was convincing,” Maelgwyn responds, but that doesn’t get a smile or anything out of Ethan. When the dance ends, he goes to get another drink, but Ethan turns it down, suddenly subdued. _Faintly_ , Maelgwyn wonders if he might have gone too far, but another drink drowns that worry out.

Maelgwyn isn’t sure how they make it back to his room at the end of the night, but they do, leaning on each other and the walls for support.

“You’ll sleep on the floor,” Maelgwyn mumbles, distracted by fumbling with (and failing to open) the clasp of his cloak, which he eventually just lifts up over his head and discards on the floor before moving to fumble with the buttons of his shirt.

“Absolutely not,” Hitchcock says insulted by the very idea. “I’m not sleeping on stone.”

“Do you _see_ two beds in this room?” Maelgwyn asks, tossing a pillow to Ethan; he immediately catches it and throws it back, and it hits Maelgwyn in the face.

“Then share. If you were drunk enough to kiss me, you’re drunk enough to share a bed this large.”

Maelgwyn wants to grumble at him, knows deep down that perhaps sharing a bed is taking the act too far, after all, no one will see them in here - but he relents. He’s tired, and drunk, and it honestly doesn’t sound like as bad of an idea as it could be.

Maelgwyn climbs into his bed, drags himself over to one edge of the bed and gestures for Ethan to climb in. When he’s under the covers, Ethan looks over at Maelgwyn barely staying on the bed and scoffs.

“Move over,” he says.

“Not enough room,” the prince mumbles, and feels Ethan grab his arm and tug him closer.

“You’re going to fall off the bed, because you’re drunk as a lord, and you’re going to dash your head open, and I'm going to be accused of murdering you, and it’s going to be an enormous mess. Please get over.”

Too tired to argue, Maelgwyn moves closer, close enough to feel Ethan’s heat beside him (a strangely comforting feeling), and drifts off to sleep.

◊

Samothes wakes up late the next day, but still earlier than Samot does. It’s always amusing to see Samot the morning after parties; in crowds of people with a drink in his hand (and several more empty glasses nearby), he’s in his element, magnetic and effervescent.He’s still beautiful and charming when it’s just the two of them, but there’s something special about seeing him sleep quietly in their bed, a sight just for him that years of marriage hasn’t dulled one bit. Samothes gets dressed quietly, and looks at Samot one last time before heading down to his forge. He’s seen it a thousand times, but he loves the way his husband’s hair gets tousled in his sleep. He heads downstairs with a smile on his face.

It would be easy to have the forge lit for him - ask Primo to do it beforehand, or even just make it happen. He could rearrange an entire city if the whim struck him, but he prefers to strike the flint himself, watch the sparks land on the kindling and the coals heat up.

It doesn’t take long before the forge is sweltering and he lets his robes hang around his waist as he works. Today, he’s not working on anything special, just a simple sword; more for the pleasure of making a sword the way that only he can than for any practical need. Time passes quickly, or slowly, it’s hard to tell when you only have the _clink_ of a hammer on iron and the hiss of hot coals to mark the seconds.

Samothes feels Samot’s presence behind him for a minute or two before either of them speak, just watching him work.

“Good morning,” he says, putting his hammer down and wiping his hands off. Samot laughs.

“It’s the afternoon, but thank you, love,” he says, and Samothes turns around to see his husband still wearing nothing but a silk bathrobe.

“Just a robe today?”

“Where would I be going? I’m going to read for a bit, eat, and then going back to bed with my husband, which I would hope I don’t need to be dressed for. No need to waste clothes.” Samothes steps away from the forge to kiss his husband, careful not to place his soot-stained hands anywhere near his robe.

“I wanted to ask you something before you go read, actually,” Samothes says as Samot steps back towards the stairs. “Ethan Hitchcock?”

“That’s an odd question. One might say it isn’t a question at all, actually,” Samot replies with a small, but still self-satisfied smile on his face; but he folds his arms and looks thoughtful a second later. “Well, Maelgwyn is clearly trying to use him to get to his money. He seems like a tricky one, though.”

“Huh?” Samothes is genuinely caught off-guard at that, though Samot says it so matter of factly.

“Did you not notice?” Samot replies. “The way they stuck close and looked the part when the other guests were around them, but how odd they acted when the two of them were apart from the rest of the party? When they kissed, it looked like it was the first time they ever had.”

“No,” Samothes says, still mostly dumbfounded, but the anger that’s quickly catching up is apparent in his voice. “Why didn’t you talk to him and put a stop to it right away. The longer he gets away with this - he needs to learn that he can’t lie to us like this.”

“That’s the odd thing,” Samot says, brushing some hair back behind his ear. “It didn’t seem like Maelgwyn was putting on an act for Hitchcock. He seemed to be having a good time. It was just the rest of us they were performing for.”

“So you don’t want to do anything?”

“No. Not now, anyways.”

Samothes presses his lips together and frowns. “Are you certain?”

“If things go bad, I’ll yell at him myself,” Samot says. “Fair enough?”

“Fine.”

“Good. Also, have you seen the earrings I was wearing yesterday?”

◊

Maelgwyn wakes up with the worst hangover of his life the morning after high sun day. He rolls to his other side and opens his eyes just enough to see that Ethan’s already taken his leave, and somewhere in-between the lurch of his stomach and the pounding of his head, he recognizes that he feels distinctly _disappointed_ , another emotion he’s unfamiliar with. And then, not ready to face the day, he closes his eyes and falls back asleep.

 _Awful_ , he thinks when he wakes up for real a few hours later. _What’s the point of being born of the God of Wine if I feel like this?_ But he gets up, and drinks water, and lays back down, and picks at some bread that night, and nobody notices anything is strange for a few days.

It’s small things, at first. Samot asks him if he’s seen his earrings, and though it’s odd that he misplaced _both_ , Hieron knows that it wouldn’t be the first time that some jewelry didn’t make it through the night of a party. But then Maelgwyn notices a pair of his cufflinks are missing, not the pair he was wearing on High Sun Day either. And someone comments that some of the silver is missing when setting the table one. But the real indication that something is wrong is that one of their best candlesticks is missing, suddenly not in the cabinet they’re kept in when it’s time to put them out for a dinner party.

Nobody in the household has any idea who the thief could be. Samothes and Samot have a brief squabble about whose delegation was more likely to harbor a thief, but even when Samot finally relents and admits that one of his wine-loving guests _might_ have gotten inebriated enough to do something like that, no particular suspects come up; Samothes just uses it to insist that this is the last time they celebrate High Sun Day in the city, and that it's only the volcano from here on out. Maelgwyn _pretends_ he has no suspicions.

But even though he hadn’t mentioned anything before, Ethan is suddenly unreachable, always busy with classes or helping the Six with a score, even though the scheme is supposed to be his responsibility right now. And while Maelgwyn knows it doesn’t mean anything - maybe he was embarrassed about the kiss the night before, or insisting on sleeping in his bed, which are both reasonable things to be embarrassed about in Maelgwyn’s mind, and it’s not like they’re actually dating, so there’s no need for him to stay - he’d left before Maelgwyn had even woken up. After a bit, he can’t take it anymore. He at least needs to talk to the one person who _might_ know.

“Primo,” Maelgwyn calls into the cobbin’s workshop. “Are you free?”

There’s the crash of some metal falling off a shelf, and a cobbin sticks his head up above the table. “Yessir. What can I help you with?”

“Did you see Ethan Hitchcock leave the morning after High Sun Day?”

“Hitchcock?”

“Yes, the human I was dancing with. A bit shorter than me, wearing a fancy cavalry uniform?”

“Oh, _him_. Yes, yes, I saw him leaving real early that morning,” Primo says, already hunting around the workbench for something else.

“Did he have anything with him?”

“Just a bag, looked like he was wearing the same clothes from the night before. You kids have a good night?”

 _He didn’t bring a bag with him_ , Maelgwyn remembers. _Fuck. Shit_. “Yes, sure. Thank you Primo.” Maelgwyn feels inexplicably numb as first, and then even more confusingly _hurt_. Not angry, the natural reaction to a deal gone bad, but hurt in a deeper way than he was anticipating. Almost betrayed, as overdramatic as that word feels to use for someone he’s scarcely known for a month.

Maelgwyn sets out for the studio right away, blood pounding in his ears as he walks through the streets - confused as he is by how he feels, he’s never been one for hesitation. He walks through the door and straight through the dance studio, where teenagers stumble in their minuettes at the sight of him; he doesn’t hesitate when Edmund calls after him to stop.

Ethan is standing alone in the fencing studio, running through drills. He lowers his rapier when he sees Maelgwyn, but doesn’t seem to react to the feverish expression on the prince’s face.

“How did you do it? Sneak Edmund in and hope he wouldn’t be noticed?”

“I did it myself,” Ethan says, and his casual tone stings more than it should. “I hold my alcohol very well. And I know when to stop. Unlike you.”

“This wasn’t the agreement,” Maelgwyn says, and as cold and steady as he’s trying to be, his voice cracks a bit anyways.

“Was stealing from your house not enough of a sign that I’m done with the agreement?”

“You disrespect me and the rest of the Six by going back on our promise,” Maelgwyn says, stepping closer. “And you disrespected my family by robbing us when you were in our home as a welcome guest.”

“Ah, yes,” Ethan begins, his words cutting as he walks past Maelgwyn and to the doorway to the stairs. “Because an extended conceit to fleece your fathers out of a small fortune is an excellent way to respect your family.”

“Why, then? You would have made a hundred times more than the things you stole are worth if you had waited a few more months! Not even years! Months!”

“What kind of person did you think I was, Maelgwyn?” Ethan says, and turns for the door. “I’m a thief. This is what I _do_.” He opens it and holds it open for Maelgwyn.

“I was going to betray my father for the Six,” Maelgwyn says, words falling flat. “I was going to give you books.”

“That seems to reflect far more on you than me.”

Maelgwyn walks out the door, looking at Ethan in a hurt bewilderment. The anger hasn’t hit him quite yet, but he can tell it’s coming, simmering right below the surface. He doesn’t turn away right away, but waits, like he’s expecting an apology, or at least _something_ , but Ethan doesn’t give him any. He shuts the door in Maelgwyn’s face.

◊

Maelgwyn simmers with anger for a solid week afterwards, stalking about the manor and talking to no one, except to request meals be brought to his room, where he eats them alone. When he leaves to get air, he wears his father’s mask, just to avoid recognition and any unwanted inquiries. Samot is busy getting ready to return to the university for the start of the new year, and although both of his fathers check in on him quickly at different times, it’s easy to slip through the cracks for a few days. Castille calls on him an innumerable number of times, and he refuses to talk to her. Ethan doesn’t come at all, and there’s no sign of any of the stolen objects being returned.

As the week goes on, the molten hot anger begins to cool, but it solidifies and weighs on him. It feels like an iron sphere is on his chest, and somehow his chest feels hollow at the same time. He feels like he’s caving in on himself, and he has no one to talk to about it. Castille is his closest friend. Ethan is the only person he’s spent much time with in the past month, they’ve been so dedicated to the plan.

One day - he’s lost track of how many have passed since High Sun Day - there’s a knock on his door, and Samot opens it before waiting to be invited in, though he hovers near the doorway.

“I’m _fine_ , don’t worry about me-”

“We’re going to talk,” Samot says firmly, then gives him a sympathetic smile. “I promised your father I would yell at you if this happened.” Maelgwyn doesn’t interrogate that statement too much. “I’m not actually going to yell at you.”

Maelgwyn is 21, but he feels much, _much_ younger as Samot comes and sits next to him on his bed. He doesn’t cry - _Confidence Alive_ doesn’t _cry_ \- but feels unusually lost for words when his father puts an arm around his shoulder. He still hasn’t admitted that any part of it wasn’t real to them, pride too strong to confess that he’d tried to get around an agreement and that it had backfired.

“I truly thought… that what we had was real,” he says, and as the words leave his mouth, it finally occurs to him that he means them far more than he should, and is angry at himself for it. It’s not just that he doesn’t like doubting his own instincts, it’s that he _shouldn’t_ be. More than any other being in all of Hieron, he should be sure of things when they’re true, and he was wrong.

“I’m the son of _gods_ ,” he continues, and _can_ feel hot angry tears welling up in his eyes. “I _am_ a god. I shouldn’t have to feel like this.”

“Sometimes unfortunately, gods are cursed to have emotions too,” Samot says, like he’s just repeating a fact you could read in a book. “Just like everyone else. I suppose the big secret about us is that we aren’t all that different than the rest of Hieron when it comes to matters of the heart.”

“Stupid,” he mutters, not entirely sure if it’s directed at himself, or at Ethan, or the whole damned thing.

“It’s not - Maelgwyn, these things happen. You’re not stupid for falling in love. You’re _young_ ,” he says, and Maelgwyn freezes at the phrase falling in love before feeling a strange sense of release at hearing the words said out loud and leaning into Samot’s arms. “You’re _my_ son, you could never be _stupid_. Foolish in love perhaps, but never stupid.”

“How would you know about being foolish in love? You and father were _made_ for each other.”

“Do you think it was always that easy for us?” Samot asks, clearly amused. “You’ve seen how often we disagree, even now.”

“You bicker, but that’s different-”

“And you couldn’t imagine how much worse it was before we had you.”

“You never _stole_ from his house.”

“No, but I destroyed plenty of his creations. Some because I was a wolf, and some out of spite. And some for his attention.” Samot pauses, trying to make sure he’s choosing his words carefully. “That isn’t to say you’re destined to be with this Ethan, and you’re squandering fate. He might just be an asshole who stole from our house during a party.”

Samot’s bluntness forces a weak chuckle out of Maelgwyn, the first one in days.

“I’m just mad,” Maelgwyn admits, letting his pride slip for a split second in front of his father. “Because I’m not used to being wrong, and I don’t want it to be true that everything I’ve done was a mistake.”

“Not used to being wrong,” Samot repeats with a quiet laugh. “You’re _truly_ our son.”

Maelgwyn half laughs again at that too. “That’s what happens when the two most stubborn bastards in Hieron decide to have a child.”

“Well, do you regret it?” Samot asks gently after a moment. “That seems like the easiest way to tell if you’ve made a mistake.”

Maelgwyn thinks on the question for a minute while Samot rubs his shoulder, searching for the answer. The opposite of Confidence is Regret. Somehow, this is something he thinks he’s known since he was small, and he uses it to work through his feelings.

He doesn’t regret trying to pull off the scheme. It was brilliantly planned by him and Castille, and if it hadn’t been for Ethan - the one variable they couldn’t control - it would have gone perfectly. He digs deeper, trying to find regret for _something_ , anything. But there’s none for their illicit sword fight in the basement of the studio, none for the night of High Sun Day. Maelgwyn is hurt, but can’t bring himself to truly _regret_ any of it.

“I feel like it would be easier if I did regret it,” he admits, and Samot pulls him in for a full hug.

“That’s the way of things sometimes,” his father says, brushing hair away from his freckled cheeks like he was a child again. “But you know your father and I both love you dearly, no matter what.”

“I know.”

“Lord Maelgwyn?” Primo’s voice comes from the doorway, and both the prince and his father look over, Maelgwyn quickly straightening up and tucking his vulnerability away for the moment.

“Yes, Primo?”

“There’s an uh, Edmund Hitchcock here to see you?”

“Edmund?” Samot asks, eyes narrowing as he frowns. “Is he pulling some joke on you?”

“No, he -” he cuts himself off, the oddity of the situation hitting him. “Are you sure it’s _Edmund_?”

“That’s what he said.”

Maelgwyn hesitates, then figures that he has nothing to lose. _What is Edmund going to do? Steal the other candlestick? Let him try_. “Send him up,” he says, and turns to his father as Primo heads back. “He has a brother.”

“Ah,” Samot says, and stands up from the bed. “Time to take my leave. I’ll let you speak with him, then. Just remember that me and your father are both here for you.” He bends down and gives his son a kiss on the forehead. “We love you Maelgwyn.”

“I love you too,” he replies, and Samot slips out with one last encouraging smile. When he hears another knock at the door, he doesn’t even look up. “Come in.”

“Ah, hello,” Edmund says, walking in the door. “Thank you for letting me in. I know you’ve turned Castille away at the door about 30 times in the past week.”

“Why _did_ you come? I got the impression you were quite unhappy with your brother… working with me,” Maelgwyn asks, suddenly uncomfortable with having to look up in order to talk to Edmund. “Please have a seat.” It’s more of a command than a request, and Edmund complies, shifting uncomfortably under Maelgwyn’s gaze.

“I, well, yes,” Edmund says, trying to avoid just coming out and saying it. “But he’s been moping around the studio for a week straight, and I got off bed rest for my injuries barely two months ago, and I can’t keep running two schools by myself, and he won’t even sell the things he stole to keep us in the black."

“What?”

“He refuses to pawn them off!” Edmund says, and he’s so genuinely exasperated with his brother that he shakes his head, as if forgetting exactly who he’s talking to. "I've asked him to a thousand times."

“Then why did he steal them? What I was going to pay you was far more than what those were worth.”

“I know my brother better than anyone,” Edmund says. “And between you and me, I think he panicked. We’re not used to getting emotionally invested in scores, which of course is generally for the best-”

“He was _invested_?”

Edmund looks at him like he was stupid. “Of course he was. That’s why I was upset - in all honesty, I wouldn’t have given a damn if he hadn’t cared about this whole thing.”

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

“Thank you,” Maelgwyn says after a minute of uncomfortable silence, with the prince thinking intensely and Edmund’s nervous fidgeting becoming more and more pronounced. “For coming. Can I give you anything for your troubles?”

“Well, I’ll never say no to someone greasing my palm,” Edmund says with a smile, and Maegwyn pulls out a small purse of coin with a sigh and tosses it to him. “But please, just get him to stop moping about so I can stop teaching his classes.”

◊

Maelgwyn doesn’t go to see Ethan right away, but the weight on his chest changes. It’s not a heavy iron ball of dread anymore, just this sense of anticipation. Eventually, he can’t stand it anymore. He gets out of bed, puts on his best clothes ( _Y_ _ou can’t go confront a lover scorned looking bad,_ he thinks, _that’s like losing already_ ). For the first time since High Sun Day he leaves Samot’s mask on his dresser before leaving the house, and taking a deep breath, heads towards the studio, cutting through the hanging gardens to shave a few minutes off the walk.

When he parts the vines covering the walkway, he realizes with a start that Ethan has apparently had the same idea as him. Across the plaza, Hitchcock is walking into the hanging gardens from the other direction, bag in hand. Maelgwyn feels a surge of _something_ at the sight of him. It’s something hot, burning him up from the inside out. Anger? _Yes. Probably anger_ , he thinks, and lets it carry him towards Hitchcock

“You bastard,” Maelgwyn says and picks up his pace towards Ethan. “You cowardly -”

“You presumptuous -” Ethan interrupts him and starts walking towards Maelgwyn with just as much fervor.

“- asshole -”

“Acting like you run this world just because -”

“- think you could get away with it?”

 “- absolutely foolish _fop_ of a man -”

“- most lily-livered duelist I’ve ever had the displeasure of -”

“- pathetic excuse for a god -”

They meet each other in the center of the plaza, faces inches apart, glaring knives at each other. Maelgwyn isn’t sure if Ethan is about to draw his rapier, or shove him to the ground, or start yelling at him. But Hitchcock does none of those things. He drops the bag he’s holding onto the cobblestones with a _clank_ of brass and gold and silver and reaches up to pull Maelgwyn’s face down.

And Ethan kisses _him_. Maelgwyn freezes, and then just lets it happen. His hands float to Ethan’s waist without really thinking, Ethan’s fingers tangle in his hair, and Maelgwyn begins to feel a bit dizzy.

Maelgwyn pulls back, breathless and face flushed. “The agreement is off.”

“I know,” Ethan replies, tone dry but a strangely genuine smile on his face. “I made a terrible business decision. I could have been getting _paid_ for this, imagine that.”

“Fool,” Maelgwyn says, and kisses him again.


End file.
